


Extracts From the Winchester Papers

by rosied



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosied/pseuds/rosied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles kept a journal during his time in the 4077th.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extracts From the Winchester Papers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dickjoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickjoke/gifts).



I am in Hell.

Hell is a M.A.S.H unit two hundred and fifty nine miles from Tokyo.

I am here because a cowardly, conniving colonel would rather send a very valuable, ground-breaking surgeon into harm's way – even possibly to their death – than pay his debt of honor.

And I am scared: scared of losing my comforts and consolations, my standard of living, scared of the diseases that are running rampant in this camp, scared of being injured, perhaps maimed or killed.

But most of all I am scared of this – to survive here, I must forget all my sophisticated surgical techniques, the slow, delicate precision that I am so proud of, that gives me so much satisfaction, in favor of the quick and primitive 'meatball' surgery that must be done here to keep up with the relentless pace of the incoming wounded.

I will do it, though. I will not fail, because failure is not an option. I told Colonel Potter that it is not possible to break the spirit of a Winchester, and I will keep to that. But will I be able to remember my skills again when this is all over? Will my hands remember their precise movements? Because if not, I **will** be broken, past all mending.

I must keep these feelings to myself, however – a Winchester does not show any sign of weakness, so I must find ways to cope with this place. I will write down my thoughts in this journal. I have my records and my gramophone; music always soothes me and recharges my energy.

And most of all, I shall play games with the people in this camp. I issue a silent challenge to them to try to best me, in words or deeds. They will not succeed. I will fence with them verbally, and outdo them; I will ignore their deeds and quietly find ways to get my revenge. That will certainly help take my mind off all the hardships I must endure here. In fact, I find myself rather looking forward to it.

I think the best of my opponents will be Pierce and Hunnicutt. Although their practical jokes are puerile and easily thwarted – a snake in my bed? Really? - they have a certain way with words, somewhat crude, but more humorous than I shall let them know. In Pierce's case, I rather think there may be hidden depths to him, as I flatter myself is true of me. Perhaps he may even see through my games.

Yes, I think Hawkeye will prove a worthy adversary.

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

I had Pierce at my mercy today. He allowed himself to get hopelessly drunk at Rosie's Bar due to a misplaced sense of guilt over Corporal O'Reilly being caught in a mortar attack. Good grief, the man is a legal adult and capable of making his own decisions. It was his choice to take the R&R, even if Pierce made the suggestion, and Pierce is being ridiculous by insisting that the accident was his fault. Typical of the man's inflated ego.

Be that as it may, he was hopelessly hungover in the OR, and I was able to lob verbal barbs at him with him being incapable of making any response. But somehow it didn't feel very satisfying – with Hawkeye not in top form it was a hollow victory at best.

And then O'Reilly had the nerve to get on his moral high horse and accuse his 'idol' of having feet of clay. Perhaps I should reconsider my opinion of him as an adult. Who could blame Pierce for losing his cool and telling the brat exactly what he thought of him? Only the entire camp, with the exception of Hunnicutt and myself.

So, I took it upon myself to let Hawkeye know of my support, even admitting the embarrassment of my little 'peccadillo' back in high school, of which the less said the better. Needless to say he was expecting me to add to the coals of fire being heaped on his head. But I made sure I phrased my comments in such a way as to enable him to take offense at them, and I'm delighted to say he did – I'm sure he'll be back to his own self very soon, and we'll be able to get back to our usual rivalry.

 (Of course, getting our rivalry back was my only motivation for my expressing sympathy – heaven forbid Pierce should think I was becoming friendly towards him.)

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

I have to confess that today I allowed myself to be goaded into showing my emotions in front of Colonel Potter. I was sitting for a portrait (he fancies himself an artist), trying to endear myself to him with a view to eventually persuading him to let me go back to Tokyo. I brought the subject up politely to begin with, but he proved himself unable to consider anything beyond his own convenience, and was so unpleasant and loud in his refusals that I lost control of myself and started shouting at him...

I am extremely embarrassed about my outburst. Also, I fear I acted too precipitately and may have totally destroyed my chance of getting him to see reason about sending me back to Tokyo, especially as I find he has forbidden Corporal O'Reilly to put me through to Colonel Baldwin on the phone.

I am loath to admit it, but Colonel Potter's portrait completely captured the sheer terror and frustration I am endeavoring to hide from everyone here. Perhaps he's more perceptive than I have given him credit for; I shall have to be more careful around him.

I have sent a tape to my parents begging them to get me out of here. But I must be realistic – though Senator Griswold is undoubtedly under the influence of my father, he himself has no influence on anybody in a position to assist with my predicament. I begin to think I must resign myself to being trapped here for the rest of the war, with my surgical skills slowly atrophying...

Must distract myself!

I must try to dwell on pleasant things, few as they are in this cess-pit. The most recent one: Hawkeye Pierce begging me for a favor! So entertaining listening to him begging me to take his Officer Of the Day duty so he could spend the weekend in Seoul with a nurse. I confess I milked it for all it was worth before I gave in – not for any altruistic motive, of course, as I made sure he knew, but for the fact that he was going to be doing three days of my duty in return for my doing two days of his – profit! - and for the prospect of a weekend's peace and quiet.

Though I must confess in the privacy of this journal that for some reason I was quite pleased to find him asleep in the tent after having missed his Jeep. I'm not going to let him out of taking my duty, though!

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

I **hate** it when one of my business schemes goes awry!

I seized the opportunity given by a military scrip change to make a profit by redeeming the local villagers' old scrip, which they're not supposed to have, for dollar bills at the rate of ten cents for a dollar. I intended to get back to the camp before it was closed during the change-over and exchange the old scrip for the new, thus earning a large return for my investment, but I encountered a road block, due to mines, on the way back, and had to run cross-country the rest of the way. I arrived just one minute after the gates had closed, and that idiot Klinger refused to let me in. Then to add insult to injury, Pierce and Hunnicutt strolled up, and when I asked them to exchange the scrip for me Pierce gave me... **me!** four cents to the dollar, giving me forty dollars in exchange for four hundred!

I was so furious that I threw the money to the ground – what's forty dollars? If my scheme had worked it would have been four hundred! I meant what I said to the tailor – it's not the money, it's the hunt, and Pierce and Hunnicutt had the audacity to take my prey from me!

That road-block really worked in their favor – one would almost think they'd..... they wouldn't, would they?

Yes, of course they would.

I shall have my revenge!

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

I hadn't thought this cesspit could possibly be any more excruciating than it already is, but I was wrong – so, so wrong.

We are having a temporary exchange of personnel between our unit and the 8063rd, to observe each other's techniques and exchange knowledge. One surgeon and one nurse from each unit are involved; Pierce and the unfortunate Nurse Bigelow went over to the 8063rd, and Captains Roy Dupree and Lorraine Anderson came to join us.

When they arrived, I was in the middle of nailing a brand new sign showing the way to Boston to the top of the signpost – after all, Boston is the greatest city in the world! As I told Hunnicutt, who was present and heckling, I was keeping a countdown of the time until Pierce's return, and thus the number of hours of relative peace and quiet remaining.

Dupree struck me the instant I laid eyes on him as an infuriating, loud-mouthed jackass, but I was quite taken with Captain Anderson – Lorraine, who turns out to be a very good friend of Margaret Houlihan. I chatted with her for a while as BJ took Dupree to the Swamp, then left her at the lab to surprise Margaret.

I could hear Dupree's obnoxious hillbilly accent as I approached the Swamp. It turned out that I had timed my arrival very badly, just in time for a toast to his arrival. I took the opportunity to let Dupree know my unfavorable opinion of him, which I hoped would ensure that he avoided me as much as possible during his stay here. Alas, it did not have the desired effect, as he insisted he liked me anyway, accompanied by the first of many annoyingly hard shoulder slaps. I do not really care for physical displays of any kind, so this was absolutely intolerable. And to add insult to injury, he accused me of having been to Yale! I could tell that Hunnicutt was also beginning to tire of his presence, especially when he nearly wrecked the still. (As a measure of the effect Dupree's terrible sense of humor, Hunnicutt's joke about 'the still of the night', which I would normally consider infantile, appeared positively hilarious.)

We were rescued from the torture by a call to the OR, where my dislike for Dupree increased exponentially, and my countdown for the length of time that Pierce will be away turned into a countdown to the blessed time that Dupree will leave. He took every opportunity to show off, continually butting into other people's work and making unwelcome suggestions. Unfortunately, Colonel Potter was taken in enough to be very impressed by him. In addition, Major Houlihan was being utterly unreasonable about my light bantering with Lorraine as we worked; apparently it was unprofessional! Totally ridiculous attitude; as Colonel Potter pointed out, the conversation was no different to our usual OR interactions.

I did take the opportunity to invite Lorraine to join me this evening for a meal from my private larder. We passed a pleasant few hours together, and enjoyed flirting with each other, but I have decided not to take it any further since she will be leaving soon; unlike Pierce, I do not care for casual 'flings'. 

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

Can things possibly get any worse?

Lorraine has always been very entertaining in the mess, regaling us with tales about the misadventures she and Margaret had got into in their student days. Margaret, for some reason hasn't been joining in the reminiscences; in fact, she's been doing her best to discourage them. Dupree on the other hand very soon wore out his welcome; everyone has taken to finishing up their meals and departing hastily whenever he arrives. This morning at breakfast he took us by surprise when we were engrossed in an extremely amusing story that Lorraine was telling, about when she and Margaret had tried to do a little cheating on a microbiology exam. Lorraine and I made our escape very neatly, but Hunnicutt and Father Mulcahy were too slow and ended up having to listen to his mindless twaddle.

When Hunnicutt got back to the Swamp and told me what had just happened, I realised that I should have stayed. After I left, the idiotic bumpkin not only managed to offend Father Mulcahy, which I had hitherto believed was impossible – he'd asked Colonel Potter whether he could be permanently transferred to the 4077th, and the Colonel had ACTUALLY AGREED TO TRY AND ARRANGE IT!!!! If only I had been there… surely I could have done SOMETHING to stop it!

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

There is light at the end of the tunnel!

BJ and I spent the rest of yesterday and all day today commiserating with each other. We were sitting on our cots this evening discussing how terrible things were going to be – that when Hawkeye came back, either there were going to be four of us crammed into this tent, or one of us would have to leave. We both vowed that it wouldn't be either of us. The only consolation we could find was that Hawkeye would probably soon join us in our hatred of Dupree, and the three of us could band together and make his life a misery. We were interrupted by the sound of raucous singing coming our way – the cretin had obviously found Rosie's Bar, and judging by the state of him had drunk it dry.

He stumbled into the tent with his usual inane rambling and shoulder-slapping. We endured it for the shortest length of time possible before starting to try and put him to bed. BJ was just about giving him a piggy-back ride, which inspired him to remember how he used to ride his dad's ponies. At that moment a flash of inspiration struck me – pure genius, if I say so myself, and asked BJ whose turn it was to walk Sophie tonight. BJ cottoned on to my idea with only a little bit of prompting, united as we were in our heartfelt desire to get rid of him at all costs. After Dupree realised that Sophie was a horse, it was the work of a few minutes to have him ask to ride her, and for us to 'reluctantly' agree.

As he weaved his way off to get her, we took our seats outside the Swamp to wait for the fun to start. Sure enough, he came riding around the tent, yelling loudly enough to wake the whole camp, as we intended. We wandered over to Colonel Potter's tent as Dupree was making his second circuit, to get a front row seat for the fireworks. My plan worked like a charm – Colonel Potter went off like a rocket, and in the most gratifyingly colorful terms rescinded his permission for Dupree to transfer to the 4077th!

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

BJ and I have been practically dancing round the camp today! I have started counting down the hours till Hawkeye rejoins us tomorrow – I've missed him so much, and I can't wait to see him again!

xxxxxxxx

 

Dear Journal,

He's gone!

Dupree and Lorraine departed straight after breakfast. BJ and I made sure to be there to see them off, just to assure ourselves that he was really gone. I was slightly disappointed that Lorraine had to leave, but since we were getting rid of Dupree at the same time, I found I could bear the parting with perfect equanimity. I did make the gesture of offering to open my last bottle of Beaujolais for a farewell drink with her, as I thought it was expected of me, but I made sure I waited until the moment before her departure, so there could be no question of her accepting.

BJ and I ended up sharing the Beaujolais tonight over a celebratory game of chess, as we waited for Hawkeye to get back (since I was looking forward to seeing him, I did save him some of the wine). BJ is a surprisingly good opponent (not in my league, of course, but he did give me one or two little problems to solve).

We decided to tease Hawkeye for a while by making him think that Dupree had been wonderful, and that we were sorry to see him leave and Hawkeye return, but in the event, I was only able to keep the pretense for a short while before my relief at having him back got the better of me and I grabbed hold of him and hugged him as tightly as I could, quickly followed by BJ.

Hugging Hawkeye, to my surprise, felt really good and I was quite reluctant to let go. I suppose it must be because I've denied myself any human contact for... well, a very long time now I come to think about it. It would have been the same with anyone.

No, not anyone – I am NOT going to think about Dupree!

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

 I was so proud of myself today in the OR. I managed to save a soldier's leg from what would have been certain amputation had I not been there, and of course I couldn't resist a bit of bragging about it in the OR, and enjoying Pierce and Hunnicutt's jealousy-inspired barbs. I was unable to manage the same success with his hand – that would have been beyond even me, but I felt a little loss of dexterity would be nothing compared to what the loss of his leg would have been.

Or so I thought until I told Private Sheridan – in such a horribly dismissive manner – and he reacted as though his world had come to an end.

Of course it had – he's a concert pianist.

If only I had known! I would at least have been more sympathetic when I told him... not that he would have taken it any better, but...

I failed him. Betrayed him. How can I ever even start to make amends?

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

I have been to see David, several times, trying to make him see that he does have a future, but he refuses to listen to what I say to him. All he says is that he doesn't blame me – as if I care about that!

How can I get through to him? I never thought I would say this, but I wish I were more like Hawkeye, more compassionate and caring. He always seems to know the right thing to say at times like these. I tried to talk to him, confide in him and ask his advice, but he was too busy planning some big party with Hunnicutt to pay me any attention. Well, I suppose I have only myself to blame. I've kept him at arms length for so long, preferring our verbal sparring and rejecting any overture of friendship.

What can I do??

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

I'm going to talk to Father Mulcahy. I've never really talked to him before – that arms-length thing again, and the fact that I don't quite share his beliefs, but I do know that he'll never turn anyone away when they're desperate for advice.

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

At the time, I didn't feel that anything Father Mulcahy said had been helpful, though I did appreciate his efforts and concern, but as I lay on my cot obsessing about David, and what I could possibly do that would help, his words came back to me: “Music is the key”, and inspiration hit me.

I remembered Mother showing me an article about Paul Wittgenstein, a concert pianist who had lost his right hand in World War 1, and had been determined to commission music to be played with the left hand only. He'd been turned down many times, until at last Maurice Ravel had been inspired to take the commission.

I knew they'd have at least some of the music Wittgenstein played in the Military Library in Seoul, so the next day, after finding out from Colonel Potter that Klinger was going into Seoul, I gave him a list of the pieces and told him to bring copies of the sheet music for all that they had.

That night, the Officers Club was deserted because everyone was at the cookout that Pierce and Hunnicutt had arranged, I commandeered a wheelchair and took David outside, claiming it was so he could get some fresh air.

I took David into the Officers Club, sat him in front of the piano, and before his initial anger had a chance to grow, I showed him the Ravel piece and told him about Paul Wittgenstein. He'd heard of the pieces, of course, but he scoffed at first, as so many composers had before Wittgenstein found Ravel. I poured out my soul to him in that bar, telling him that I'd desperately wanted to make music, but I didn't have the gift that he has, insisting that the word was 'has', not 'had', despite his protests to the contrary. I told him that the gift wasn't in his hands, but in his head, his heart, his soul, and practically begged him not to let the gift go – that he could be a conductor, a teacher, or a composer; that the sheet music was for him alone, because he and the piano would always be one.

He sat there for a moment, almost glaring at the music, but eventually, first tentatively, then with growing confidence, he began to play.

I know I said that I don't have the gift of making music, despite the fact that I've always yearned for it, but as I sat there nearly in tears watching David play, for a moment, I almost felt as if I had.

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

David was discharged today. I'm going to miss his playing and our talks – about many things, not just music. It was as if we could say anything to each other, about ourselves, our emotions, our deepest beliefs. I've never had anyone I felt I could be open with until now, and I don't know what I'll do without it. We've promised to correspond, and to meet up again after the war, but it won't be the same.

Perhaps I should consider opening up a bit to other people here, Hawkeye, maybe.... I'll think about it.

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

Something quite... amazing has happened.

Yesterday, Hawkeye was yelling in the office while I was checking on the patients in recovery, so I went in to tell him to be quiet. He was on the phone, and told me that it was private, so I shushed him again and went to leave. Just as I was about to close the door, I heard him say that his father was having an operation. On an impulse, I stayed to listen. It turned out that his father hadn't told him what he was going in for, and thanks to the total inefficiency of the US Army Mail (which shouldn't come as a surprise, I suppose, given the total inefficiency of the US Army as a whole) the letter had arrived on the day of the operation. When I asked him about it, he basically told me to leave, implying we weren't friends, which I'm sorry to say was still the case despite the tentative overtures I'd started trying to make.

Still, I couldn't stop... well, worrying about Hawkeye's father - and Hawkeye himself, to be honest – he'd been sitting there for hours trying to get through to his father. I went in and offered to get him some coffee, which he declined, and while I was there he managed to get through to the hospital; this time he didn't mind me remaining in the room. Alas, he was on the phone for less than a minute before getting cut off because some wretched general wanted to use the phone. I went to get some coffee to give him a chance to vent in private, and brought one back for him, too.

We talked for a little while – Hawkeye was convinced it was cancer, and I was trying to reassure him, when the phone rang again. It seemed a ham radio operator had picked up Hawkeye's last call and had got through to the hospital for him, unfortunately just after his father went into surgery. He did manage to speak to a nurse on his father's floor, and she told him it was a pheochromocytoma, a pretty rare tumor, and one that requires a delicate hand in surgery. Hawkeye was expecting the worst result, needless to say. He told the operator he was expecting another urgent call later, and asked that it be put through as quickly as possible.

Then we settled down to wait. I suppose it was because we were punch-drunk from tiredness by that time, but we really started opening up to each other. Hawkeye told me about how his father always wanted to shield him from anything bad, even when his mother died, and he thought the same thing was happening now. How although he'd always told his father he loves him every time they talk, he'd never told his father that he really meant it. He said that they were too close to let it end in silence twelve thousand miles apart. I confessed how much I envied him, that my father and I had never been close even when we were in the same room – I had a father, but he had a dad. Hawkeye observed that I'd never told him anything like that before, and I pointed out that I've never told him anything before... but that will be quickly remedied. I called him “Hawkeye” deliberately for the first time, and I could tell he realised the import of it.

Of course, the day wouldn't have been complete without a little surgery of our own, and of course the casualties started to arrive, interrupting the Colonel's bowling contest as well as our vigil. In the OR, Hawkeye was really jumpy, snapping at everyone for making too much noise, where normally he would be the instigator of the bantering, and I would be the one demanding quiet. I tried to soothe him, telling him his father was going to be all right, and to my surprise and pleasure, Hawkeye listened to me, and even offered to take the (slightly) injured Father Mulcahy's spot in the bowling.

I have to admit that Hawkeye's joining the bowling team inspired me to drop a hint to Colonel Potter that the methylene blue that had just arrived for Private Selkirk might have another application (unexpected blue urine is very disconcerting). I could see from the look that Colonel Potter and Margaret exchanged that they were in favor of the trick. BJ, expert prankster that he is, also realised what I meant and jumped at the chance to help me with my plot to sabotage the opposition's star player.

I couldn't help giggling outside the OR as we explained to Klinger that we hadn't actually given Urbancic a pep pill, but a little while later when Urbancic discovered his 'problem' I managed to keep a very straight face as BJ and I concocted a suitably terrifying disease which meant that he absolutely should not bend his back and discouraged him from telling Colonel Pitts about it. His alarmed reaction was hilarious. I must admit that BJ and I work well as a team. 

As BJ and I wandered back to the bowling, congratulating each other on the success of our plan, Hawkeye came running past us, obviously heading for the phone to find out how his father was after the surgery. I really wanted to go after him, but it would have looked peculiar, so I restrained myself. We got back to the game just in time to enjoy watching Urbancic try to bowl without bending down, which was highly entertaining, followed by Margaret bowling the winning strike.

Needless to say our celebration was loud and prolonged, and I enjoyed it tremendously, though not, of course, letting myself go too much. At first when BJ shouted something in my direction, I thought it was to me. I couldn't quite catch what he was saying, but then I heard Hawkeye's voice behind me and realised BJ had called to him. I turned round quickly to ask about his phone call, but one look at his face was enough to answer my question without need for words – his dad's surgery was a success!

I allowed myself to be persuaded to join the victory party in the Officers Club that night, in no small part because I was anxious to speak to Hawkeye and hear the details of his phone call. He wasn't there when I arrived, but BJ hailed me. We congratulated each other some more about our prank, then started chatting casually. I found myself far more at ease than I usually am in these sort of informal social situations – I think perhaps I should start to take part in them more often than has been my custom.

Then Hawkeye arrived, touched me on the shoulder, and asked me to join him at a table. (He does look good in that gray sweatshirt; he should wear it more.) I assented, and when Urbancic came in to tell us excitedly that he thought he was better, I managed to slip away, leaving BJ to talk to him and joined Hawkeye at a table in the corner. He surprised me by buying me a brandy and having one himself. I've never seen him drink brandy before. Considering our location, it tasted surprisingly good. Maybe it was due to the company!

We talked about his father for a while, but then the conversation drifted further and further afield. We found out so much about each other. It was like the talks I had had with David, but the fact that Hawkeye and I are of a similar age, and have so many shared experiences gave it an added dimension. We talked on and on all night, becoming somewhat inebriated in the process, until long after the bar had closed. Eventually, the barman lost his patience and kicked us out.

We weaved our way over to the Swamp, giggling like little kids, arms round each other's shoulders to keep ourselves upright. Stumbling inside, we carried on giggling, and shushing one another (though I don't think BJ would have woken up for anything short of the Apocalypse). Then - I don't really remember how it happened – we made eye contact, stopped laughing and just gazed into each other's eyes as if searching for something. Then we were kissing as if we would never stop.

For a while, I was just lost in the moment, but then doubts started to creep in. Was this real? I didn't know if was only happening because we were drunk, and I didn't want to end up regretting it and losing our new-found friendship. With an effort I pulled my mouth away from Hawkeye's and said “Tomorrow – when we're sober.”

Hawkeye reached out and cupped my face with his hands. “It's not the booze, Charles, this is real.” Then he glanced over at the sleeping BJ and added “But you're right. Tomorrow – when we're alone.”

We shared one last kiss, then stumbled over to our cots. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but I was out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I'm so happy this morning that I can't even feel the hangover!

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

I think I have made the biggest mistake of my life. The war has been over for six months, and I am Chief Of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy – exactly where I always wanted to be. But it hasn't made me happy.

I've been thinking about the relationship I had with Hawkeye in Korea, and I find that I miss him more than I would have believed possible. If he were to call me today and ask me to be with him, I would leave everything I have here and go.

I must face up to it – I love him.

He went into practice with his father in Crabapple Cove after the war. There are good hospitals in Maine – none of them as good as Boston Mercy, of course, but if I can find one near enough to Crabapple Cove, perhaps in commutable distance, I could take it.

I need to call Hawkeye, tell him all of this, and ask him if he sees a future for us. I'll do it now, before I lose my courage.

xxxxxxxx

Dear Journal,

He said yes!!!!!!

 

 


End file.
